Big Brother is Watching
by Madame MoonbeamShinyStarDust
Summary: Scott, Lance, and the rest of the BH get to join a Big Brother program, which leads to some wacky misadventures involving Asthmanaut, Bucket Kid, SUZY!!, and some other freaky children!
1. WHAM!

Disclaimer: Marvel owns eeeeverything! Indigo Girls belong to themselves! We might go to an Indigo Girls concert in June!! YAY!! Er, anyway, Asthmanaut, Slab, and the other children belong to... US! 

A/N: This is probably the oddest fic we've ever written, which isn't saying much because we only have one other fic out. We're hoping to write more very soon. 

By the way, Pyro's here because we like him. :P Who cares about stupid things like "explanations" and... "plots"? As you know, we're not really known for having those! 

* * * * * 

**Chapter 1: WHAM!**

Lance looked to Scott. _Stupid Summers, he thought in a vengeful tone to himself, in his head no less. Always gettin' me in trouble, and yet, he has such a cute-- uhh... GLASSES! Boy, I wish I had glasses like that, because... they're... cool! All I've got is a salad bowl to put on my head. Lousy salad bowl, why if I--_

By this point, Lance was too far off the subject of Scott Summers to really remember why he was annoyed in the first place. Oh yeah... now he remembered, that whole "fight" thing. 

It was Summers' fault, of course! HE was the one who was too preoccupied with thinking about Red to notice that he was at-- 

_My locker, damn it! He was at MY locker, disgracing it with his touch! Desanctifying it! Corroding it! Well, I suppose he wasn't corroding it... In any case, he was on MY territory and I HAD to defend it by punching him in the head!_

You see, Lance Alvers was a very territorial boy. He had even written his name on his salad bowl/helmet just in case one of the guys mistook it for an average eatin' bowl. Of course, having his name on his costume kind of eliminated the purpose of "secret identity", but oh well. 

Suddenly! The door opened and Principal Darkholme stood there scowling at the two boys (one of whom was trying to tape his sunglasses back together with his eyes closed). 

"Gee, Summers, you look like Stevie Wonder," Lance quipped before turning his attention to the somewhat irate principal. Scott, meanwhile, would've glared at the rock tumbler, if only he had use of his eyes (although blasting him would've been fun, too. It wasn't his fault he was at the wrong locker! After all, Jean had WAVED to him! That was enough to make any guy lightheaded!). 

"Mr. Summers, Alvers," she greeted coldly. "Come inside." 

Lance shrugged, stalking into the office after her while Scott put his mended glasses back on (though they were lopsided) and followed. 

"I could give you boys detention," she started, pausing to indicate that she really wasn't going to do that, "but something's come up recently. You see, there's this Big Brother program that's in serious need of volunteers, so... You guys are now officially 'Big Brothers'. You'll meet your kids this afternoon. Be back at the gym at 4:00, now get out of my sight." 

_Well, that was short. Something tells me she wasn't in a talkative mood today. Stupid Big Brother Program..._

This set Lance off on a wild mumbling tangent on how stupid various things were and how stupid it was that he had to take care of some snot nosed kid and-- well, you get the picture. So rantful was he, that he didn't notice when he was home until smacked into the door. 

_Smack!_

"Most people knock with their hands, not their heads," came a voice on the other side of the door. 

Mumble "Stupid" mumble. 

The door opened and Johnny looked at Lance with an arched eyebrow. "Tough day, sweet 'eart?" 

"Yes." 

"Why don't ya tell your ol' chum Pyro?" 

Lance responded with pushing the blonde aside and walking in the house. He then mumbled some stuff about "stupid" this and that (one of said stupid things being "big brother"). 

"Really? I wanna be a Big Brother!! Where do ya sign up?!" 

Lance moaned. "I guess you could come with me-- where's Pietro and the others?" 

"They went for slushies or a lobotomy or somethin', I dunno... Who cares? I'm gonna be a Big Brother!!" With an excited bounce he ran up the stairs and went to "brotherize" himself. 

_I can't believe this!_ Lance lamented to himself, taking this time alone to wallow in self pity. You know, the teenage kind. _No one loves me, I'm alone, yadda yadda angst blah-- and onto more relevent things! I can't believe I have to be a Big Brother! And with Summers, no less. SUMMERS!_ He was trying to grin and grimace at the same time, and it wasn't exactly working. 

"What the 'ell are you doin'?" St. John asked upon noticing Lance's awkward expression. 

"Nothing, let's go," Lance retorted in a fine grumble as he walked out the door and hopped into his trusty jeep, not bothering to notice if John was following or not. Turning his key in the ignition, he started the car with full intentions of leaving his freakishly chipper friend behind. 

All was for naught, however, when John hopped into the car right before Lance pulled away. 

"We're takin' a long trip, right?" 

"The school's four minutes away." 

"Great! I have music!" He giggled and popped a CD into the player. 

"Did I say you could--" Lance started (remember, he's territorial), but suddenly, strange music began to play. Folky music. "What the hell is this 'Chickenman' stuff?!" he exclaimed, looking totally confused. It made no sense at all! "I am an only child"? "Chickenman hold my hand"? What the hell?! He moved his hand to turn this girly folky stuff off, but was stopped by St. John. 

"This is the best part!" 

"It sounds like all the other 'parts'," Lance mumbled. 

"I 'eard that! Yooou will liiiike them!" He completed this statement with a spooky, hypnotic handmotion. 

Lance wanted to kick the blonde out of the car, but realized it was too late because they were already at the school and kicking John out then wouldn't hurt very much. That said, Lance parked the car and started stalking into the building. 

"Oh, fine, Mr. Grumpy-pants!" John called after him, though he was mostly ignored as Lance continued into the school. He didn't really want to know what "Mr. Grumpy-Pants" meant. In fact, all thoughts of "Mr. Grumpy-Pants" were wiped clear of his head as Lance walked into the school and stopped dead in his tracks as a horrible sight befell him. 

Children. Lots and lots of... children. Lance shuddered. They all looked the same; all little Poke-- or whatever-mon obsessed freaks who ran around with their Nintendo Gamecubeboys and all that technology jazz. Why, in his day, they had to throw sticks at each other for entertainment... and they _liked_ it, damn it! 

It was then that a child struck his attention, however. He wasn't like the other boys. Maybe it had to do with him sitting there slamming his head into the floor multiple times. This made Lance like the kid more. He had to admit, the little guy had... potential. 

Lance looked around. There were a lot of people he knew there-- in fact, the Brotherhood was there in its sans-Lance and Johnny entirety! 

_Crap! I gotta make this fast so they don't see me!_

"All right everyone, pair up with a kid and sign out for your first day as Big Brothers and Sisters!" the overenthusiastic sponsor cried overenthusiastically. What could Lance say, he wasn't very good with... adjectives and words and stuff. 

Well, if he _had_ to pick a kid, Lance figured he'd pick the head-smashy kid. He decided to walk over sneakily and say hello. 

"Hey, uh... little... guy." 

_Wham!_

"So... you like that floor, huh?" 

_Wham!!_

"Oh brother," Lance muttered. 

_WHAM!!_

* * * * * 

Scott entered the gym looking less than exuberant. It wasn't that he disliked children-- oh no, quite the opposite. However, this batch of children... Let's just say they were "special" and leave it at that. It was then that he noticed one little child off by himself with a bucket on his head. Suddenly, without warning, Bucket-Kid ran fullspeed into the wall. He fell down and mumbled laughter could be distinguished from under the bucket as the kid got up and smashed into the adjacent wall. 

"I'm not picking _that_ kid," he declared to himself. All around him, kids ran around screaming and playing various stupid child games. "Great, the leaders of tomorrow," he mumbled sarcastically. 

Suddenly, he heard from behind him: "GREAT! The leaders of tomorrow!!" 

Wonderful. It was that Australian idiot who hung around the Brotherhood for NO APPARENT REASON. 

"I call the kid with the bucket!" 

"No, he's MINE!" Todd Tolensky declared, grabbing onto the child by the handle of his bucket. 

"Damn," the Aussie muttered, stalking off to find some other kid. 

Just then, Scott became acutely aware of a... thing... tugging at his pant leg. Arching his eyebrow in that confused Scott Summers way, he looked down and beheld... a little boy with glasses and an inhaler hanging around his neck. 

"Will you be my friend, Mister?" he asked, looking up with big brown puppy-dog eyes. 

_Aww,_ Scott thought, his heart melting. _I had brown eyes once-- I think._

"Mister, why are you wearing sunglasses, Mister? We're inside, Mister." 

"Stop calling me 'Mister', my name is Scott! And it's an eye-issue..." 

"Oh, okay, Mist-- er... Scott." 

Scott sighed. "What's your name?" 

"ASTHMANAUT!" the child practically exclaimed, puffing himself up as much as a little kid with an inhaler possibly could. 

"...really?" Scott couldn't help but wondering where all these children came from, actually... "What's your real name, kiddo?" 

"ASTHMANAUT!" 

"Okay, fine, 'Asthmanaut'," Scott said in a dry voice. "Let's go sign up, huh?" 

"Yay! I have a friend! You can be my sidekick!" 

"Great," he replied, feigning interest. "What should I be called?" 

"Um... SHADES!" 

Meanwhile, across the gym, Lance declared "I like him!" _WHAM!_ "Damn it! Stop that!" 

* * * * * 

About an hour later, all was well and signed up. The Brotherhood-- sans Pietro-- stood around the parking lot, wondering what to do with these kids now that they had them. 

"Who in their right mind would entrust kids to us, yo?" Todd asked. A small "Yo" emitted from under the bucket of his chosen kid who had no name but Bucket-Kid. 

"I guess they wanted a break. I don't blame 'em," Lance answered as his own kid hit his head against the pavement. _Wham!_ "So, hey, I never figured out your name, kid." 

"Slab." _Wham!_

"Uh... Cool! What about you, Freddy?" 

"This is Cedrick Samson, but uhh... he's got a real bad lisp," he said in a low voice, as if attempting to protect little Cedrick from the harsh truth. 

"Guys, meet SUZIE!!" St. John exclaimed giddily as he presented his find to the Brotherhood. Out of all the kids, his seemed the least screwed up. She was a nice little girl-- clean-- with red pigtails and a little blue dress. Oh yes, and the standard All-American freckles. 

"G'day!" she said in a chirpy voice, trying to imitate her "Big Brother". 

St. John beamed proudly. "That's my girl!" 

Suddenly, a flash of fruity colors entered the scene, and an aggravated looking Pietro arrived. 

"Hey, where've you been?" Todd asked the irate speed demon. 

"I was getting a slush-- I mean, I was... sleeping!" 

"Oh. Did ya get a kid yet?" 

"Yes." 

"And?" 

"And what?" Pietro asked. 

"Where is he?" Lance questioned flatly. 

"I'm still... waiting for him to make his way across the gym. He's been walking for the past five minutes! And he doesn't speak English! As far as I can tell, this is an all new, unique language known only to him! What the hell does 'floob' mean, anyway?!" 

"I have no idea, but maybe you should go back and get him." 

"Fine, fine..." the quasi-albino grumbled. "Figures I'd get stuck with the broken kid." 

"Well, first come, first serve. That's why I got SUZIE!!" 

"Shut up, Aussie!" 

_Wham!!_

* * * * * 

A/N: More to come! Is Johnny the Crocodile Hunter? Does Pietro's kid really speak some strange alien language? Does Bucket-Kid have a name? And what's the secret to Asthmanaut's mysterious nonexistent powers?! Also, romance will be here eventually-- we hope! 


	2. Avast, Foe!

Disclaimer: Marvel owns eeeeverything! Except for the kids (most of whom don't appear in this chapter) and Mr. Snapè, who... sort of belongs to us. In a highly plagiarized kinda way. 

A/N: This chapter makes less sense than the last! YAY! In fact, since it's been so very long, we've lost all track of the original plot, so a new one has been fabricated for your pleasure. Yeah, that's it. Pleasure. 

* * * * * 

**Chapter 2: Avast, Foe!**

So, they all had their stupid kids. Luckily, the kids were with their equally stupid Big Brothers, so it all worked out. Lance, the co-hero of this story, was dumbfounded, looking around for something to do with his kid. 

_Think, Lance, THINK!_ he commanded himself. _Well, what do kids like to do?_

His brain responded with silence. It was a lot of help. 

_Gee._

He pondered further, expanding on the thought of "Gee". 

_Whiz_, he finished. 

As Lance stood there in complete repose, which was a new word for Lance ("repose", that is, not "stood"), Slab did something sudden and unexpected. 

He smacked his head against the pavement. You weren't expecting that, were you? 

_*Wham!*_

By this point, the rest of the Brotherhood had left to do their... well, whatever, with their respective kids. Lance and Slab stood-- well, Lance was standing while Slab was, y'know, sitting on the ground while hitting his head-- in the parking lot of the school. The sun began to set. How many hours had he been standing here? The day was almost over and Lance hadn't done anything-- ah well. Screw it. 

Lance sat down, furrowed his brow in deep thought, and, rather like a Zen master-- 

* * * * * 

_"Boink"?_ thought Scott. _What kind of a noise is that for smashing your head against the pavement?_

Well, maybe Lance needed more practice. 

From the other end of the parking lot, the bespectacled hero watched Lance with simultaneous disgust and amusement, which made for a very stupid expression, much like Lance's in the previous chapter. The ensuing sound reinforced Scott's theory that Lance's head was full of rubber and other materials of equal buoyancy. Scott was a rather scientific fellow. He once thought of wearing double monocles and a top-hat whilst carrying a cane. He even had a cool name to go with it, but the idea didn't pan out in the end. 

"Mister, why are we still standing here, mister? We've been standing here for hours, mister. I want some ice cream, mister, before my mom comes, mister. I'm not allowed to eat anything that's not nutritious, mister. I get carrot sticks for dessert and rice cakes, too, if I'm good. Mister," Asthmanaut pulled on Scott's stylishly khaki pant leg, "are you listening to me, mister?" 

"Yes, Jean, of course," Scott said blankly. 

"My name's not Jean, mister." 

"Of course not, Jean. Your hair looks great. Duncan will love it." 

"Who's Duncan, mister? Snap out of it-- gasp!" Asthmanaut then gasped, as he caught of... His eyes narrowed. We will not finish the sentence, for we want to cut to the conflict. "...Slab." 

Scott nodded, still in "Jean" mode. 

"Oh, it's you," Asthmanaut said in his deep, manly, superhero voice that wasn't all that deep, manly, or super. He launched into a tirade directed towards his hated enemy. "You, hated fiend, I despise the very ground you smack your... visage upon!" 

Scott blinked, snapping out of his trance. Wow, the kid was using more SAT words than he did, and Scott had been a senior for three seasons-- er... for a while now. 

"...in the darkest of night, around six-thirty, before the street lights light up in their ethereal yellow haze, I have searched for you, my rival. One day, I shall mete vengeance upon you, and the world shall be cleansed." With a dramatic flip of his cape, which was durable yet winsome (or so his mom said), he ran off towards Slab and Lance. 

"Uh oh." With that less dramatic note, Scott charged after his wayward kid. "Hey! Get back here! We're supposed to be having fun! I scheduled 'fun' in my day planner!" 

* * * * * 

Lance, who'd been in a euphoric state of head-smashiness, didn't notice, until it was too late, the two geeks charging towards him. 

"Avast, foe!" 

What the hell? 

_*Wham!*_

Apparently, Slab took no notice of the sudden influx of dorkitude. Truly, the kid was far more Zen than Lance could ever hope to be. But soon, the master would become the student, and soon, the teacher would go out to lunch!! Or something equally as uplifting and foreboding! Lance was suddenly hungry. It was then that he noticed Scott, sunglasses angrily glinting crimson in the fading sunlight, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Lance knew this could only mean one thing: Scott was going to shove him against a locker and accuse him of kidnapping a teammate or lighting the X-Jet on fire or some equally stupid thing. But wait! There were no lockers out here! 

"Ha_ha_!" Lance cackled triumphantly. "There are no lockers here, Summers! What're you gonna do _now_?!" 

"Um." Scott looked confused, or so his sunglasses suggested. Lance looked deep into the red lenses, as Scott continued to stand in confusion. "What?" 

"Ha! Can't think of anything, can you? Not so big now, are you?" Lance paused. "Or... are you?" 

"_What_?" Scott had a feeling he didn't like where this was going. "Or do I?" he said. 

"What?!" It was Lance's turn to look confused. The dialogue was going nowhere, so Scott decided to take some initiative. 

"We're leaving!" he said, snatching up his kid, who was trying to get Slab's attention so that he could smite him. 

"Fine!" 

"Good!" 

"I'm glad!" 

"Swell!" 

"Swell?" 

"Shut up, Alvers!" 

And with that, Scott Summers stormed off, Asthmanaut in tow. After fifteen minutes of walking without direction, Scott realized that he actually didn't know where he was going. "Where do you live, kid?" 

"Asthmania!!" 

"That's not a place." 

"It is, too! I have a sign on my door that says so and everything, mister!" 

"Oi." Scott smacked his head with his palm, carefully avoiding blasting the kid with an accidental slip of his shades. This was going to be so much fun. He had to remember to give Principal Darkholme a big "Thank You" bomb when he got around to it. It wasn't a very X-Manly thought, but he didn't care! 

* * * * * 

"Five points from... your next test!" shouted Mr. Snapè, glaring at Lance. 

Lance didn't really care what Mr. Snapè did to his next test, as he had a killer headache from last night's wild fun with Slab, which was both wild and fun in a non-slash and non-pedophile kind of way. It was like with each slam of his head to the pavement, another chemistry formula vanished into oblivion. Also, he noticed a fun side effect of the meaning of the universe becoming clearer and clearer. 

"Are you listening, Mr. Alvers?" Mr. Snapè hissed, pushing his greasy black hair away from his face so as to better glare at Lance. 

"Uhh... not really," Lance admitted. 

"You're just like your father," Mr. Snapè said in a venomous voice as his black eyes filled with contempt. 

Lance, being an orphan who'd never seen his parents, looked up at Mr. Snapè with hopeful eyes. "Really?" he said. "You knew my father?" 

"No! But I assume you're just like him!" Mr. Snapè declared. "Genetics and all that, you know." 

"Um, but isn't that..." Lance searched for the word. Last night's activities had diminished his vocabulary. "...biology?" 

"Yes, you idiot boy!" the sallow-skinned teacher snapped. "I don't even want to be teaching this class! I don't want to teach you the periodic table and how to put a stopper on iodine! I hate iodine! I always wanted to teach... Physical Education!!" 

Lance, as well as the rest of the class, stared blankly at Mr. Snapè. 

"P.E., you dullards!" 

Mr. Snapè did this every day. He was a bitter man. He was also British, and he always wore black suits, which somehow billowed behind him as he walked. 

There was a collective "Oh" from the class. Suddenly, something out of the ordinary happened. Scott Summers, looking very confused, walked into the classroom. He was looking confused a lot these days. Lance was convinced he only had two "looks", confused and dead. 

"Um, Principal Darkholme changed my schedule, and now I'm in this class," he said, breaking the tension in the room. 

"Dumbledore, you say?" Snapè queried. 

"Um, no. Darkholme." 

"Ah, Dumble--" 

"--holme," Scott finished. "Darkholme. Principal Darkholme." 

"Fine. It seems we have a new... celebrity," Snapè said rather dramatically. "Mr. Summers." 

"How do you know my name? And why am I a celebrity?" Scott asked. He knew now that Principal Darkholme hated him. Why else would she have him transferred to this nutcase's class? 

"I..." he said, after a dramatic pause, "read the new roll sheet." He approached Scott, malice glinting in his black eyes. "Tell me, Mr. Summers," he said in a deadly whisper, "On the periodic table, where would you find... WATER?" 

There was a collective "gasp!" from the rest of the class. 

"Water isn't on the periodic table, sir," Scott answered. 

"I know!" Snapè declared, slightly giddy. "It was a trick question!! Now, sit down." 

"Where?" Scott asked without thinking. Immediately, he regretted it. After all, there was only one contrived place for him to sit and further the plot. 

"With Mr. Alvers, of course." 

"Why?" Scott mumbled. 

"Do you want to know why?!!" Mr. Snapè said with a gleeful little chortle. "Tell him why, Duncan?" 

Scott noticed that Duncan was the only one with a first name. Hmm, clearly Mr. Snapè played favorites. 

"Uhh..." Duncan looked like he just woke up. "Because 'Summers' comes after 'Alvers'?" 

"Yes! Correct, Duncan! Five points for Sly-- I mean-- your next test!" He pointed to the chair besides Lance and watched with ill-concealed joviality as Scott, who was not so jovial, shuffled over to his new seat. 

"Hello, _Mr. Summers_," Lance said, doing a pretty good Snapè impression. "Couldn't stay away from me, could ya?" 

Scott blinked. "Did you hear anything Mr. Snapè said?" 

"Yeah, what, that 'S' comes after 'A' crap? I know you just can't stay away from this!" he said with an elaborate gesture. 

"What, the desk?" 

"No, I mean--" 

"The chair?" 

"No, I--" 

"FIVE POINTS FROM YOUR NEXT TEST!" 

* * * * * 

Scott was walking through the hall after a particularly dismal day at chemistry, when suddenly a locker whispered to him. 

"Psst, hey, glasses-kid." 

Glasses-kid? That could only mean one person among the many students at Bayville who wore glasses. Scott looked around, trying to find the source of the voice. 

"A-22," it said. 

Whatever could that mean? 

"It's a locker, you idiot!" Clearly, the voice was becoming exasperated. 

Scott walked over to the locker, who was very eager to talk to him, and said, "Hello?" 

"Open it." 

"I can't. I don't know the combination, and besides, it would be wrong!" 

"31-2-53. Just open it! I have vital information for you!" 

Scott sighed and did as he was told. As he opened the locker door, he was surprised to find a grizzled man with a toothpick and eyepatch staring back at him. 

"It's me. Nick Fury," the man who often doubled as a plot device said in a conspiratorial voice. 

"Yeah, I know. Don't you usually talk to Logan?" 

"Well, he's in South Beach chasing after Sabretooth. I'm not really in the mood to get between that. Ever since Captain America left, Logan's been--" 

"Please don't finish that sentence." Scott had always known on some level that those crazy Danger Room sessions Logan was so fond of were really the result of massive sexual tension. "Why're you here?" 

"Magneto has a plan. An _evil_ plan. Something about summer camps and Professor Xavier." 

"He wants to take Professor X to summer camp? How harmful could that be?" 

"Very. Harmful. Not to mention... sinister." 

"Okay, well, uh, I'll keep on the look out for sinister summer camp going people." 

"Good. Now, get me out of here." 

*Ding ding!* 

"Wait, that's the one-minute bell!" Scott cried, as he slammed the occupied locker shut out of habit and ran off. 

* * * * * 

A/N: Wow! Another chapter! How many years did that take? Is there even a plot? We decided we should wrap up our loose ends before we run off to college, but we seem to have left even more loose ends now. Ahhh well! 


End file.
